


The Joys These Storms Bring

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17426639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: For Draco Malfoy, happiness is a rainstorm.





	The Joys These Storms Bring

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 round of HP Drizzle. Just now getting around to importing it.
> 
> Astoria is written Asteria here as I have always gone by the way I saw it spelt in the written family trees on JKR's site a million years ago. In more recent fics I keep it as most of fandom uses it--Astoria. So, before anyone yells at me, yes I do know the difference.

  
Her dress is soaked, lavender satin gone deep purple and heavy with the rain, but still she charges closer. Black rivers of mascara race down her cheeks and her pale hair has gone dark gold--matted as it falls from the updo atop her crown--yet, even now, Draco finds her beautiful. 

His own shirt is drenched, tight against his torso, showing his skin beneath the white fabric; so clearly that he might as well be shirtless. Thunder cracks close by, rattling the rocky moorland on which they stand. In the far distance--at Wolfenbry Hall--he can make out the lighted ballroom’s windows. A room in which he knows people are dancing, smiling, making merry in celebration of a new union. It is a stark contrast to what he has out here--in this endless hell of rolling hills awash in greenery and rock. Father used to say Wizards only visited the Greengrasses when they wanted to die. _Drown in their endless rains, or fall to your death off rocky terrain._

Draco feels as if he is drowning, here with Asteria, wonders if falling to his death would hurt less than this aching chasm in his chest. 

They stare for an eternity; her eyes, green as sea water, hold him to this spot, this place, and it is lifetimes yet before she runs at him. Slim arms wrapping around his cold, wet neck as she jumps against him. 

Mother would be horrified if she saw the mud caking his clothes, but Draco doesn’t care for any of that when Asteria kisses him--her lips warm despite the rain. 

“You’re cold,” he says--half shouting to be heard in the storm--and she shivers in his hold as if she’s only just noticed. 

“There,” she yells right back, “The groundskeeper's hut has been empty for years.” 

It is full of dust, smells stale with time, but gives them a welcome reprieve. Asteria stands awkwardly in the centre of the room, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth--chewing against it--in a display of anxiety. Father’s always called her weak for her little tells--the nuances that give away her private thoughts. Draco’s always found it to be human and endearing. 

“I don’t have a wand,” she admits, and Draco nods. Neither does he. It was a stipulation of Daphne’s wedding. Draco’s never forgotten the Christening of Asteria’s second cousin, Angus, a bloody nightmare that was once Asteria’s lot got the drink in them. At least three fights broke out over the course of the evening, and one of Asteria’s uncles wound up needing reconstructive magics performed on his eye--an expensive waste since he’ll never again see from that eye. Wandless magic is a hard art to perfect, and even when perfected it is near impossible to perform when pissed so Draco can see the reasoning behind the request. Asteria’s family would sooner give up their wands than their drinks. 

“Nor do I,” Draco responds after some minutes of silence. In truth Draco can perform wandless magic, easily, he’s been instructed since he was young.  _No Malfoy is worth his name unless he can utilize his gifts without a crutch_. Asteria, he’s sure, knows he’s no need of a wand. She requires her wand, and even when she holds it she’s not so wonderful with the length of hawthorn. One of the many faults Father likes to point out to Draco when they take tea together. 

_She’s weak, undeserving of my name_. He says often enough, but Draco disagrees as he watches her unzip the ruined satin dress she wears. Draco knows she knows he could dry her with a snap of his fingers, but she chooses to undress in his presence. Her eyes on his, daring, as she drops the heavy yards of fabrics to the dusty floor. 

Asteria stands proud--unashamed of her nudity, and Draco approaches her slowly. When she makes no move to retreat he moves faster. His long fingers ghost the lines of her body. Learning her feel once more; the heat surges into him, her magic reaching for his own, and Draco lets out a long breath. 

_I missed this_. 

In the wet hearth a fire ignites itself, and he raises his eyes from where they’ve been lingering on her sharp hipbones. 

The kiss they share is like lightning--electric, sharp, full of a passion that is never recreated. The walls rattle when thunder moves closer, but Draco hardly notices as Asteria’s fingers tremble--with cold rather than nerves--against the buttons of his shirt. She has it open and strokes the pale skin of his chest that is covered in gooseflesh. They stand so close their breath mingles; Draco can taste wine in the air from her mouth, and he drinks it down. Savours it as if it is the taste of a favourite vintage. 

His shirt falls to the floor with a heavy, wet flop. Then Asteria’s hands are at his belt. 

The mattress is lumpy, full of dust and stale with time, but she doesn’t seem to care as she pulls him forward--over her with bright, pleading eyes. Draco waits for her nod--the one she gives as she bites at her bottom lip--as he always does, and when she gives her consent he presses closer. They’re both full of ice; but he feels his body warming with the contact, and lets out a low breath. Then he’s tasting her mouth--searching her out with lips and tongue--trying to recapture a forgotten memory. Her fingers winding in his wet hair, scratching at his scalp, while his fingers smooth over her jaw, slide down her slim throat, re-learning the lines of her sharp shoulder. 

Outside the rain comes harder, mounting as the passion mounts between them. Draco trails down from her mouth, faster than usual in his eager haste to taste. Her thighs part without hesitation, and he drinks down the sight of her. It’s cliche and corny but Draco could write sonnets to her body. He’s never before been so enamoured with a woman’s form. Draco’s known women--countless women before he chose her, at twenty-three. She had been eager that first time, and he can easily recall the way she gasped as he took her in her white wedding gown. 

The rain had come that night as well, as it falls now. Drowning out her cries then the same as it masks them from any who might happen upon this hut. “Draco,” she half shouts when he licks into her, opens her, feasts upon her. 

He goes at it until his jaw aches, addicted to the taste, the smell, the feel. Her body trembles beneath him, even as Asteria tries to buck closer to his mouth, but Draco holds her steady with strong hands. 

When she’s come from his tongue Draco moves from between her thighs, dropping a chaste kiss to the top of her mound, before he crawls back over her. Immediately her hand is on him, drawing his foreskin over the head of his cock before sliding it back down with a slow, knowing purpose. Draco thrusts into the tight ring of her hand, groaning, but draws away when she becomes intent with the task. 

“I want to feel you,” he whispers, a plea in his tone. 

For a small eternity, he thinks she will say ‘no’, will draw away, will leave him again. However, her answering yes comes in the way she sits up, pushing him back against the mattress and crawls over his lap. She sinks onto his cock deliberately, her thigh muscles twitching with the strain of the pace. 

_At last_ , he thinks when she’s got all of him within her, and he whines when she draws herself up. Draco watches as she finds her rhythm, swivels her hips just so to draw him in just right, and he holds her close when she bends her torso close to his own, breasts pressing against him as she slides her tongue across his lower lip. 

The kiss is messy, his fingers bruising her upper arms as he grips her, but neither of them cares. It is wild and chaotic, same as the storm outside. Draco fucks up into her without any rhythm but she moans into him as her own fingers work over her clit for added stimulation. Her eyes are bright when her orgasm floods around him, and Draco follows her a few thrusts later while a crack of lightning illuminates the room. 

He leaves her when the rain dies, somewhere close to midnight, and she is unsurprised. 

“I forgive you, Draco,” she says--but he knows he doesn’t deserve the leniency of her heart. He’s never deserved anything Asteria have given. 

*

“Dad,” Scorpius is a wreck--wringing his hands and pacing in the antechamber, waiting for the signal that they are ready for him. “What the hell am I thinking? I can’t go through with this.” 

Draco grins, expression fond as he places a calming hand on Scorpius’s shoulder, “Do you love her?” 

“Yes,” Scorpius poises it as a question and Draco pulls a face in response. “Yes,” his son says with more feeling, “I’m just not sure marriage is for me.” 

“Little late for that,” Draco chuckles, “There’s a room full of guests waiting for you.” 

Scorpius seems on the verge of hyperventilating and Draco smacks him good-naturedly on the back. “What if I bugger this up, Dad?” 

Draco smiles, another gentle expression that belongs to his son and wife alone, “What if you don’t? There will always be the chance that you will fail, but there is also the chance that you will succeed beyond your wildest dreams--in ways you’ve never thought possible.” He hugs his son, a tad awkwardly since they are of a height now, but Scorpius still finds comfort in the gesture, “Take it from a certified failure, son, you will do just fine.” 

“I thought you hated trite platitudes,” Scorpius jest when he releases his hold on Draco. 

He snorts in response, “I normally do, but you looked like you could use them.” 

They are silent, Scorpius still fidgeting around. The quiet is broken when Draco speaks, “Did I tell you about the time your mother left me?” 

Scorpius’s eyes go wide, his mouth agape, and when he voices his question it comes out with a horrified tone, “No! When the hell did this happen?! And why in hell’s bells would you tell me  _now_?” 

*

The annulment papers are on his desk when he returns. Draco doesn’t touch them, just sits in his room until first light when he readies himself and goes down to join his parents for breakfast. 

Father dons a disappointed glower, openly glaring at Draco from across the table when he sits while Mother wears a look of concern. 

“She’s leaving you, Draco,” Father finally whispers, his voice and eyes hard, “You are a failure. Your ancestors roll in the tombs for Draco Malfoy could not manage to keep a wife far beneath his station--that trash married into this family, and you’re the reason it doesn’t work.” 

Draco ignores him, downing his tea before standing. He presses a kiss to Mother’s cheek before leaving the dining room without a word. 

*

“We’re ready for you, Scorpius,” one of the many Weasley children cheeps as he pops his head into the room, a smile on his freckled face while he watches Scorpius from the open door. 

“Already,” Scorpius near squeaks and Draco nods at the young boy--can’t be more than ten, but Draco couldn’t say which of the many Weasley spawns the little one belongs to. 

“We’ll be there in a moment,” he uses his most polite voice when addressing the child--who scampers quickly away. When the door closes Draco straightens Scorpius’s tie. “You love her; remember  _that_  no matter what. It doesn’t matter if her parents think you’re a git, that you’re the product of scum--all that matters is that you love her and she loves you in return.” 

“How horrible will it be when we have children?” Scorpius makes a face at the closed door--visibly imagining the horrors of Weasley Christmases. Draco can commiserate; Weasley Christmases sound like a horrid affair. Weasley gatherings seem a thousand times worse than Greengrass gatherings simply because there are  _more of them_.

Draco smirks at the abject fear on his son’s face, “It’s ruddy awful--believe me, but I imagine they have a shed you can skip off to when it gets too terrible.” 

“I’m not going to be the selfish sod who leaves his wife alone in a room full of people,” Scorpius glares. 

“Who said you were going to skip off alone?” Draco counters, and enjoys the ridiculous face Scorpius makes--visibly disgusted. 

*

Asteria had wanted children. Wanted them with every fibre of her being, and Draco denied her. On a beautiful, sunny day he told her ‘no’ when she asked if he wanted a son of his own. 

He regrets hurting her but has never regretted his words or decision. 

Now he stares at the scar that remains in the wake of his Dark Mark. He could never burden a child with the truth of his past. Could never bestow upon his legacy the sins of his father. Could never ask an innocent to bear the brunt of ridicule that exists solely because of his stupidity.

Who would marry a child with such a stain on his reputation? Who would befriend him? What sort of lonely life would a son of Draco’s lead? 

He loves Asteria too much to burden any child of hers with his past. Someone else will give her the family she deserves. They might not love her as deeply as Draco does, but there is a man out there who will make her as happy as she deserves to be. 

*

“What took you so long?” Asteria whispers, her gaze drifting over to Scorpius who now stands near the officiate--Albus Potter and James Potter at his side wearing wide, happy grins. Both messing good-naturedly with Scorpius who is flushed with joy, embarrassment, and jittery due to what remains of his nerves. 

“We were having a chat,” Draco replies with his best-disinterested expression, “We lost track of the time.” 

Asteria isn’t convinced, but she doesn’t pry--not when the music begins and the bridesmaids start gliding up the aisle. 

Soon they stand for the bride; Draco doesn’t look to see Lily Potter as her father leads her in--he’s looking at his son, at the radiant smile that breaks across his face while his grey eyes glaze with emotion. 

“Look at how happy she makes him,” Draco whispers and Asteria turns her eyes to their son. 

A smile lifts the corners of her mouth and she takes Draco’s hand when she says, “I recognise that face.” 

“Do you?” Draco’s tone is curious. 

“Yes,” is her enigmatic reply. They fall silent when Potter gives his daughter to a Malfoy. His expression solemn when he makes Scorpius promise to take care of her. Scorpius is equally serious when he gives Potter his word. 

*

She comes to him--a month or so after their night in the groundskeeper’s hut--and beckons Draco to join her for lunch. 

He follows her with a curious frown, wondering if she will demand he sign the papers that sit--silent and mocking--on his desk. Draco’s yet to do what he knows he must. There is still a selfish part of him that wants to keep Asteria for himself. 

It’s a busy little cafe. One he doesn’t make a habit of frequenting, but sits and doesn’t speak a word against the cheapness of it as he waits for her to order. She does, for them both, and Draco waits for their server to wander off before he asks why Asteria wanted to dine with him.

She doesn’t say anything, just pulls a small photograph out her small purse and pushes it across the table towards him. Draco lifts the small square of glossy paper, his eyebrows drawn together. It’s a twitching little black blob, flickering in the fast pace of a heartbeat. 

His heart lurches, and he looks up at Asteria with wide, horrified eyes, “Is this?” 

“I know you never wanted this, and I know you’re still planning on signing the papers, but I wanted to let you know.” 

She moves to stand, but Draco’s gentle hold on her wrist stops her. “I can’t let you do this alone.” 

Her face is annoyed, “You don’t want this, Draco.” 

“It’s not that I never wanted children, Asteria,” he admits, “I used to talk about it with Pansy, you know, when we were still in the tentative talks about our future marriage.” She makes an angry sound and he waves it off, “I know you don’t like me bringing it up-,” she cuts him off. 

“I don’t like you telling me that you planned on children with Pansy when you fought me about it for so long,” her eyes are expressive and in them he sees her stark hurt. 

“Darling,” he whispers, lacing their fingers together, “I liked the idea of being a father, of being everything I thought my own father was--until I grew up and saw the man behind the facade. I didn’t want Pansy to have my children. I wanted that with you--until I thought about the sort of life a child of mine would have.” 

“You can’t know that people will be horrible to this child, Draco,” Asteria reasons with a soft tone. 

“But what if they are,” he tries again. 

“But what if they aren’t, darling?” 

*

A vicious storm passes over London when Lily brings Draco’s first grandchild into the world. Potter comments on the awful weather and Draco gives a quiet agreement while he watches Scorpius fidget in the waiting wing of the maternity ward. 

“Is this a sign,” Scorpius wonders when Draco and Potter return with coffee for him and themselves. Draco chuckles, pressing a calming palm against Scorpius’s shoulder while his son takes a nervous drink from the cup he’s been handed. 

“I’d say it’s a good one.” Scorpius and Potter both look at him as if he’s daft, but he continues, “Trust me, the most wonderful days of my life were full of torrential storms.” 

A mediwitch comes out of the back then, a kind smile on her face, “Mr Malfoy, would you care to meet your son?” 

*

His son’s first scream comes along with a loud crack of thunder as Asteria damn near passes out against her pillows. Her face clammy and pale from her long labours. Draco brushes her hair away from her forehead and kisses her skin while his mother-in-law moons over his newborn son. 

“Are you with me, darling,” he whispers, and Asteria’s sea green eyes open slowly as she gives him a slight nod. “Wonderful. You did beautifully well.” 

“Mr Malfoy,” the Healer says with a kind tone, “Would you care to meet your son?” 

When he holds his son he is full of every fear he’s never known he’s possessed. Draco feels inadequate and incompetent. He finds himself worrying over scenarios he’d never before considered. What if someone takes his son, what if someone brings him harm, what if he is killed by some awful accident, what if, what if, what if--running through his mind as he stares at the small, still red face of his child. Draco’s still staring down at him, thinking about filling in the pool and the pond to save his infant from drowning when Asteria’s voice reaches him. 

“Let me see him,” and Draco goes to her, gently passing the light load into her slim arms despite the fact he wants to cling to him--hold him forever so that he never meets harm. “Scorpius,” she says with a new smile, one Draco has never seen before this moment, “I am so glad to meet you.” 

*

Scorpius looks absolutely terrified when the Mediwitch puts his son into his arms, and Draco, in a rare show of public affection, kisses his Scorpius’s hair before he whispers, “Horrifying isn’t it?” 

Scorpius glances up sharply and swallows with a small nod, “I didn’t know.” 

“Didn’t know what,” Draco asks, a slight smile hiding at the corners of his mouth. 

“How much you guys loved me. How scared I must’ve made you,” he sounds apologetic.

Draco laughs heartily at that, “Well, son, there’s a saying--what comes around goes around. Enjoy your hair while it lasts.” That really makes Scorpius look worried. 

It’s some time of the grandparents gawking and passing the boy around, each of them smiling and crying in turn. When the small bundle is a light-weight in his arms Draco stares at his fine nose and wrinkled brow line. The child is Scorpius in appearance, and he feels a wave of nostalgia wash over him as he looks upon this new addition to his family. 

Scorpius’s voice reaches Draco, and he glances up--noticing that the room is watching him expectantly. He apologises and moves to bring the baby back to his parents, but Scorpius gives him a bemused smile as he repeats what he must’ve said. “I asked how you felt about us naming him Draco?” 

That stops him, and he looks at his son with surprise. “What?” 

“Unless you don’t want us to,” Scorpius starts but Draco shakes his head. 

“No, no--I’d be honoured if you named him after me.” Draco has to swallow around a lump in his throat before he admits, “I just don’t think I’ve ever been a person worth honouring.” 

“Of course you are,” Scorpius scoffs then says, “You’re my father,” as if that’s reason enough. 

He passes his grandson--Draco--over to the child’s mother and excuses himself from the room. His emotions running high, and he’d rather not humiliate himself in front of Potter. He did plenty of that during school. 

*

The sky turns grey when Scorpius toddles up to Draco and says his first full sentence, “I love you, dada.” A bright flash of lightning illuminating the study; where Draco is sitting at his desk, reading over their stocks, while Scorpius wrinkles his wool trousers with a slobbery grip. 

Asteria comes in not long after; finding Draco staring vacantly at the spot that is wrinkled from Scorpius’s hand. A hand that is now messing with colour changing blocks on his blanket. She glances between them, her heels creating a click-click sound on the wood as she approaches Draco. 

“Is everything all right in here, Draco?” 

“You know,” he says, looking at the trails of water that dance down the leaded window panes, “I think it is; I think everything is grand.” 

*

Scorpius catches up with him in the waiting room, “Dad, are you all right?” 

Draco glances over at him, no longer mesmerised by the patterns the water makes on the windows. He looks at his son--the spitting image of himself at twenty-six--and he wonders, in self-loathing, how he could’ve ever hated the idea of having this person in his life. The idea that Scorpius could be a person he might never have met is inconceivable to him at this time. There are moments when Draco looks at his son and he is bowled over with the sheer amazement that he made this person, that he helped shape him, that he is part of the reason that Scorpius’s wonderful personality is a part of the world. Raising Scorpius has been a penance Draco didn’t know he needed--it has been an uplifting experience that has raised him from darkness. Loving his wife, and his child has saved him. He looks at his son and he sees a man unburdened, a happy man, a loving man and Draco thinks  _Damn, I helped make that_. 

This is Scorpius’s time, now, it is his turn to help make a man worth sending out into the world. He smiles at his son as he draws him into a hug. 

“I wish you many more storm-filled days,” Draco whispers, and Scorpius stiffens for a moment as if he doesn’t understand, but melts against him and hugs him back with a fierce hold. 

“Same to you, Dad,” his voice choking with emotion. 

*

Asteria stays awake with him the night Scorpius goes to school. She watches where he stands, naked at the open window; allowing the rain to beat against his bare skin. Draco doesn’t notice, not the cold water that drips down him, nor her assessing stare. 

“Father always says the rain brings good omens,” Asteria speaks from behind him, and he turns to find her sprawled against the dark duvet of their bed. 

“Does he?” He smiles, leaning on the stone arch of their balcony’s opening. 

“I think he’s right, you know,” she whispers with a thoughtful tone. 

“Your father,” Draco snorts, “This is the man who thinks Thestral racing should be a thing to bet on.” 

She laughs--a sound that is wild and free like the moors she comes from, “No, really, I think he’s right. After all, I met you in a rainstorm, I married you in a rainstorm, I conceived in a storm, Scorpius was born in a storm.” 

“I wish you many more storm filled days, my love,” he smiles--genuinely pleased as he watches her in their shared room. His heart full of the torrential love she’s pushed into him. 

“And I wish you many more days of happiness,” Asteria says as she reaches out her hand, beckoning him to bed. “Come share this storm with me.”

And so he does.  



End file.
